


One Plane, Two Phone Calls

by Rathenon



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Airplanes, Davis Cup, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, but roger has a thicker one, rafa has a thick skull, sascha is a snide brat, someone save me from offseason, they're perfect for each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rathenon/pseuds/Rathenon
Summary: Roger frets over Rafa's fervent desire to play every single match in sight at the Davis Cup. Sascha spectates. Revelations are made. The real winners are probably the breweries and wineries.
Relationships: Roger Federer & Alexander Zverev, Roger Federer & Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 11
Kudos: 100





	One Plane, Two Phone Calls

**Author's Note:**

> no one can stop me from writing fluff, not even homework

“Are you seriously going to play  _ nine  _ matches in  _ six  _ days?” Roger hissed, cupping his hand around his mouth to prevent their conversation from being overheard by any nosy flight attendants. And, well, Sascha too. The youngster’s eyes had flickered over to him in polite interest, and then returned back to browsing Twitter on his own phone as soon as he realized that Roger wanted privacy. “Rafa, I get that the Davis Cup Final is important, but you have to think of yourself, too!”

_ “Well,” _ said Rafa, exasperated, over the phone,  _ “is not like I gonna have a choice, no? If we want to win, I think I gonna have to play.” _

“You texted me at—” Roger checked a memo he’d made on his phone for this express purpose,“— _ five thirty  _ in the morning,  _ Central European Time  _ last night. I know for a fact that you haven’t slept properly. At all. And now you’re going to play Denis, who is an entire thirteen years younger than you, and got a full night’s sleep  _ and  _ Friday off. You’re also telling me that you might possibly have to play doubles afterwards—”

_ “I don’t want to put too much pressure on Roberto,” _ Rafa interjected.  _ “So,  _ si _ , there is a good chance that Roberto lose, and I have to play doubles.” _

Roger closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. In, out. One, two. Peace with himself, calm in the world. “Rafa,  _ are you hearing yourself talk right now?! _ This is...this is madness. Insanity. This can’t be good for you. You’re going to run yourself ragged, or worse, end up with another injury—” 

_ “I know!”  _ Rafa snapped, the sudden heat in his voice taking Roger aback.  _ “I know! I am not stupid! I know, that I am not at my best, that I am too old and tired, and Canada’s team, they are young and fresh, and that I will suffer very much if I play two more matches today, but I no know what else I can do! My team needs me, and if they need me, I gonna do everything I can for them!” _

“But…” said Roger, feeling helpless, “... _ nine  _ matches, Rafa.”

_ “I’ll get Titin to work on me good, real good,”  _ said Rafa determinedly.  _ “It will be fine.” _

"Titin is not a magician. He does therapy, not miracles."

_ "It will be fine,"  _ Rafa repeated.

He tried another tack. “Don’t you remember what happened earlier this season? Do you seriously want to go into the Australian Open injured again? It’s indoor hard—your worst—”

_ “My worse surface, si, everybody keeps telling me that."  _ Rafa suddenly sounded incredibly weary, exhaustion seeping in over the phone’s mic. Worry gnawed away at Roger’s heart. Rafa was putting up a brave front, but the truth of the matter was that even he had human limits. And as valiant as Rafa was in shattering those limits beyond comprehension, he would have to come up short against them eventually. 

_ “But that is not excuse. We all fight,”  _ said Rafa, _ “and I must too, no?” _

It was true. 

Roger let out a sigh. Clearly, Rafa had already made up his mind. He was perhaps even more stubborn than a bull, and Roger knew better than to try to convince him when he got like this. 

“Okay,” he said resignedly. “Okay. Just, please, don’t kill yourself, alright, Rafa?” He felt the desperation enter his voice. 

Perhaps Rafa heard it too, because his tone softened a little. _ “I am sure Roberto will be fine,”  _ he reassured him.  _ “He is strong, very strong, no? Even with everything that has happen-ed to him, he can still get it done. It will be easy. Two to zero victory for Spain.” _

“Uh huh,” said Roger doubtfully. 

He was about to ask Rafa about the tournament more—about how the crowds were, about how fucked up the scheduling was, about the management, about  _ Pique Cup—  _ but then he heard a collective, mighty roar in the background of the phone call, sending shivers shuddering down his spine. 

“What’s that?” 

_ “Oh,”  _ there were scrabbling noises as Rafa presumably pulled on his jacket,  _ “I have to go. Roberto’s match is starting. Crowd is very excited, no?”  _

“So soon?”

_ “Time is always sooner than we think,” _ replied Rafa sagely, and before Roger could process the thought—it was totally unfair that Rafa could spring out these little nuggets of wisdom without warning—Rafa was saying goodbye to him. 

_ “I talk to you later, Roger. Hopefully, we will both be happy.” _

“You son of a bitch,” Roger said in fond exasperation. The enigma that was Rafael Nadal would always continue to escape him. “See you later, champ.”

An answering chuckle that made Roger smile, and then the call ended. 

Next to him, Sascha coughed. “Uh, was that Rafa?”

So much for privacy. Roger stuffed his phone into his front jeans pocket. “Maybe.”

“Because, uh,” Sascha’s eyes were very pointedly fixed on his phone screen, “it sounded like you were talking to him.”

“Well,” said Roger, “I guess you’ve just answered your own question, then.” 

Sascha groaned. “You’re impossible, Roger.”

“Not as impossible as someone else,” Roger muttered to himself. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he dismissed with a wave, yawning. “I guess I’m just tired.”

He felt the weight of Sascha’s burning gaze on him, but then Sascha just shrugged. “Aren’t we all? I could use a long break after we get back home. Preferably on a nice beach somewhere, with no one around for miles.”

“That would sound nice,” Roger agreed. He could picture it now—clear, cerulean skies, palm trees swaying gently in the salt-kissed breeze, emerald waters swirling at his feet, pearly seafoam bubbling, bronze sand warm against his skin, the faint echoes of his family’s whoops and shouts in the background, a familiar voice telling him to relax, tinged with a Spanish accent—

“But seriously,” said Sascha, breaking him out of his daydream, “is everything okay with you? You look really worried about something.”

His mood soured again, a carton of weeks-old milk. “I am  _ absolutely fine,” _ he said. 

“Oh,” Sascha nodded sagely. “So it’s Rafa, then. What’s he up to now?”

He briefly considered ignoring the question, and ended up feeling too guilty to do so. Despite all of his on-court antics, Sascha was at heart a good kid. He also needed someone to rant to. Perhaps he really was getting senile in his old age. 

“He’s planning on playing eight, possibly nine matches in six days while he’s sleep deprived,” he informed him. 

Sascha’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry,  _ what?!” _

Roger slammed a hand on his armrest. _ “Exactly!  _ That idiot’s going to go off and run himself into the ground, because he’s too patriotic for his own good.”

Sascha quirked an uneasy smile. “I guess that’s Rafael Nadal for you, huh? Jesus Christ.”

Roger leaned back, sighing. “I guess so.”

“It’s probably also why you’re in love with him.”

What the—

“Okay,” Roger shot up from the chair again,  _ “what the fuck.” _

“No seriously, hear me out,” Sascha insisted. “You guys are like, totally opposite personalities,  _ and  _ rivals, which is the plotline of every single generic romcom movie ever—”

“I am not in love with Rafael Nadal,” Roger stated with absolute certainty. The planets rotated around the Sun, the rain came down from the sky, he was an amazing tennis player, and he was  _ not in love with his greatest rival.  _ It was a fact. This was how things were. 

Right?

“Oh, I get it,” Sascha nodded. “You’re in the denial stage right now. That’s why you’re so flustered about it all.”

Roger spluttered for words. He couldn’t find them. 

“Yeah, exactly.” Sascha sounded triumphant. “Denial. Just like I said.”

Roger finally put together enough words to string into a sentence. “You brat! You’re fucking insane.”

“I’m not insane for pointing out true love,” said Sascha airily. 

“Coffee?” A flight attendant had materialized by them, holding up a dark pitcher. 

Roger waved her away. “No. Get me something stronger. Whiskey, if you have it.”

She went. 

“Think about it, Rog,” continued Sascha, as if the interruption hadn’t happened at all. “If you didn’t care for him, would you be this worried?”

“He’s my friend,” Roger said defensively. “Not my—”

He choked on the word  _ crush.  _ He couldn’t say it. Red burned on his face.

Sascha hummed. “Yeah, you’re definitely in love. And not in a friend way.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Roger announced, turning his nose up at Sascha petulantly and looking the other way. 

There was a sigh from Sascha. “Alright, Roger. Alright.”

The flight attendant came with his whiskey in a bottle, along with a glass full of ice—Roger waited until she was out of sight before unscrewing the cap and downing the stuff directly straight from the bottle, glass and ice be damned. 

He heard Sascha whistle at the sight, and pointedly ignored him. 

Roger really couldn’t wait for the plane to land. 

*****

It was later that night, when he’d already dropped off Sascha at his Monte Carlo residence and was ensconced in a veritable swarm of blankets on the bed (Mirka and the kids were off to Paris for a short vacation), when Rafa texted him. 

_ U awake?  _

He instantly pressed dial, fingers tapping anxiously on the sheets as he waited for the call to connect. 

It did. 

_ “Hola!”  _ said Rafa, sounding drunk, something about the way his syllables slurred and swerved more than usual, _ “it all turn-ed out okay, no?” _

“You almost gave me a heart attack on the plane.” Roger pointed an accusing finger, even though he knew that Rafa couldn’t see it. “So no, it didn’t all turn out okay.”

Rafa snorted thickly.  _ “Ahhh, Rogelio, you so...so worried, always. Worse than my own mother.” _

“Uh huh,” said Roger, settling in deeper into his nest of blankets, like a dragon brooding over its hoard. “From the way you’re slurring, I’m guessing that the victory celebrations were lively.”

_ “They were!”  _ Rafa was enthusiastic.  _ “I drink, very much! Very tired, but I still drink! Is a good thing Roberto won, else, would be too tired to celebrate!” _

Roger rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You sound super drunk, man. Are you even going to remember anything about this conversation?”

_ “No!”  _ Rafa admitted cheerfully.  _ “When I wake tomorrow, I will have big headache. And no idea what happen-ed. Except about how I play-ed eight matches in six days, no? ” _

Drunk Rafa was always both a chore and a delight to talk to. “Yeah,” Roger said, smiling in spite of himself, “don’t do that again, alright?”

_ “I will only do it again if I want to,”  _ Rafa declared.  _ “So, is only a half-promise.”  _

“You’re making no sense,” Roger told him, amused. 

_ “No one makes sense, no?”  _ Rafa buzzed. There was a pause, like Rafa was struggling to articulate something. Then:

_ “Like you. You make no sense." _

“Me?”

_ “Si.” _ He imagined Rafa drunkenly nodding his head over the phone.  _ “You are so great. So amazing, strong, fast, smart. You can do anything. But, it make no sense. How can you be so great, but not know how I feel? ” _

“I know that you’re feeling drunk,” Roger sighed.

_ “Is not about how I am drunk!”  _ slurred Rafa.  _ “Is...is, well. I not gonna say. If you are so great, then you figure it out. I think you can. No?” _

Unbidden, his mind flashed back to what Sascha had said earlier on the plane. If the brat was right, then he didn’t even know about how  _ he  _ himself felt, let alone Rafa. This was impossible. 

But he humored Rafa anyway. “Maybe I can,” he answered. 

_ “I know you can,”  _ Rafa said confidently.  _ “Although, I think, at this rate, we will be very retire-ed and old before you figure it out. Is okay though. I wait this long, I can wait more.” _

Wait a second. In the dusty backrooms of his mind, something clicked. “Rafa,” he started hesitantly, almost in disbelief, but then there was the sound of glass shattering in the background, a very loud cat’s meow, someone yelling, and Rafa yelled something back in rapid-fire Spanish. 

_ “Puta! Sorry Rogelio! I gonna go now. They need help. I talk to you later, no?” _

“Rafa—!” 

_ “Adios!” _

It was to no avail. There was a beep, and the line went dead. 

Roger stared, like an idiot at the phone in his hand, then cursed heavily and threw it down next to him on the bed, flopping down onto the mattress. That was a mess. This was a mess.  _ He  _ was a mess. 

He put an arm over his face and groaned. 

On the bright side, he mused, it was probably a bad time, anyway. 

And that was how Roger Federer decided that he’d confess his love for Rafael Nadal some other time, like when he was actually sober. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy offseason y'all!
> 
> T'was a great year for Rafans, especially with the daredevil antics at Davis Cup. I'm very thankful that no body parts fell off this time around. I will always call that a win. Whew. 
> 
> Comments are great! Thanks for reading!


End file.
